Colin Creevey and the Triwizard Badges
by Reebus
Summary: GoF from Colin Creevey's PoV. My first HP fanfic. Thanks for the reviews so far! Any suggestions? Things I should improve on? Ch.6 up, and Ch.2 revised.
1. The Neighbor's House

Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter, Colin and Dennis Creevey, and the rest of the characters, settings, etc. from the Harry Potter series. I didn't invent and don't own any of them. She also owns the plot from _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire,_ which this story will be rigorously based on.

I've always wished Harry would pay more attention to the Creevey brothers. Not that I blame him for not doing so; we all know how much he hates being "famous Harry Potter," and the Creevey's admiration only serves to remind him of his unwanted fame. So, this story will serve to give the Creeveys some of the attention I wish they could get. I give you:

**Colin Creevey and the Triwizard Badges**

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The spells in Chapter 1 aren't real, as I'm really hoping is obvious. Wouldn't want you to think I made up spells that silly.**Chapter 1: The Neighbor's House**

Colin Creevey was dueling frantically with his neighbor's flower boxes. His wand refused to work properly, though, and his arms would barely move. The boxes had him surrounded, purple flowers giggling maniacally. He managed to send a stream of sparks at the nearest one. It jumped back a few inches, but it only waited a few seconds before advancing again. Colin started to panic as it crept towards him, waving its petals menacingly.

"Hang on a sec, Colin!" shouted a familiar voice from nearby. A moment later, Harry Potter came crashing through the carefully manicured hedge. The flower boxes scuttled away from him, cowering against the wall, leaves and stems curling up in fright.

"Carpe florus!" Harry shouted. A jet of light shot from his wand, blowing up the largest box and spraying potting soil all over Harry, Colin, and Mrs. Twitmyer's window. The flowers in the other boxes began shrieking madly. One of them launched itself at Harry's head, potting soil spewing wildly, purple petals turning an angry puce—

"Wingardium petrificotatalus!" Colin shouted, finally able to brandish his wand. The box stopped an inch from Harry's forehead and dropped at his feet, its flowers shriveling away. The other boxes whimpered and scooted rapidly around the corner of the house, hiding behind their leaves. Harry turned around, grinning at Colin, and reached out to shake his hand—

"Boy!" Mrs. Twitmyer's familiar screech echoed around the sideyard. She leapt through her window, landing between the two boys and the newly wrecked hedge, cutting off their escape. "Colbert Creevey—you—Colbert—Denton—whichever—" She choked on her fury, her plump face an odd shade of reddish green. Screaming silently, she advanced on the two boys, shaking her finger wildly. Colin's voice and hands seemed to be frozen again. He could hear the flowers hissing angrily as they lurked in the darkness around the corner. They would come join Mrs. Twitmyer any moment now— Colin looked desperately at Harry. Harry winked at him and whirled his wand.

"Perinaseum!" he shouted. Mrs. Twitmyer went a little transparent and looked down at herself, startled. "Quick! Through the window!" Harry yelled, grabbing Colin's wrist and leaping cleanly through the glass just as Mrs. Twitmyer had. The boys landed on a picture frame, which shattered gracefully as they floated to the floor. Outside, Mrs. Twitmyer pounded angrily on the window. But then, she abruptly stopped, drew herself up, and pointed significantly at Colin. Fear stabbed through him as she whirled around and marched away.

"The door!" Colin gasped.

"Right!" exclaimed Harry, rushing for the front of the house, but the door burst open just as the boys reached it. Mrs. Twitmyer strode in furiously, her flower boxes cackling as they floated in formation behind her.

"Coltrane! Denzel!" she shouted at Colin. "Whichever nasty little Creevey you are—you can't get away that easy!"

"Fungulana!" shouted Harry. The door turned an eerie green.

"Natatorium!" cried Colin, and a smell of bleach filled the room.

"Phosphorosium!"

"Electro Encephalogram!"

"Finderskeepersitis!"

"Ofinlandia!"

"Neverneverland!"

The air was filled with spells shooting every which way. Mrs. Twitmyer retreated in furious confusion. The boys pressed forward, wands hissing and spitting—

"Presbyterianism!"

"Bibliophilius!"

"Colin!"

"Colin!"

Colin opened his eyes with a start, gasped, and sat up in confusion.

"WhersaTwit?" he said thickly. He blinked sleepily around his dark room, his gaze finally lighting on his younger brother, Dennis, who was sitting up in bed, gazing at him expectantly and clearly not sleepy at all.

"What izzit, Dennis? Whatime is it?"

"It's five in the morning!" Dennis chirped excitedly. "Colin, there's only two weeks left 'til we go to Hogwarts!"


	2. The Excitement

Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter, Colin and Dennis Creevey, and the rest of the characters, settings, etc. from the Harry Potter series. I didn't invent and don't own any of them. She also owns the plot from _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire,_ which this story will be rigorously based on.

Thanks to Cecelle for pointing me to the 2004 World Book Day chat, where JKR let us know that "special messengers" come explain the whole magic thing to parents of Muggle-born wizards. I've decided to roughly follow Red Hen's concept of this explanation ( I'm guessing that these messengers come from the Muggle Liaison Office at the MoM and not from Hogwarts (Hogwarts certainly doesn't seem to have "special messengers" lurking around, and I don't think McGonagall would have the time to visit all the Muggle-borns' houses herself). Incidentally, Mrs. Branstone is not a character that JKR has ever mentioned, but in this story, she's the mother of Eleanor Branstone, a Hufflepuff in Dennis's year (although I don't think that will become especially important in the story).

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**Chapter 2: The Excitement**

Colin squinted at his excited brother and tried to grasp that he was in his bed, not in Mrs. Twitmyer's house fending off her and her mad flower boxes. And that it was summer, so he couldn't have been using magic anyway. For that matter, the spells he could remember using weren't even real ones. Wingardium petrificotatalus? Natatorium? _At least I can't get expelled for using fake spells,_ he thought.

No, wait, he couldn't have gotten expelled anyway, because it had only been a dream. His mind came into better focus. He was at home, in his and Dennis's bedroom, and Mrs. Twitmyer was a Muggle who didn't have enchanted flower boxes. It was an early August morning, and—_only a fortnight left until school started._ A thrill of excitement ran through him, and he grinned back at his eleven-year-old brother.

"And just two days 'til we go to Diagon Alley!" Dennis added, practically glowing with enthusiasm.

"Yeah, Dennis! You're right!" Colin's sleepiness was evaporating rapidly. "In just two days, you'll get to buy your wand!"

"And robes, and a pointy hat!"

"And your cauldron!"

"And dragon-hide gloves!"

"And a telescope!"

"Yeah, and—and—" Dennis hopped out of bed and grabbed a yellowish piece of parchment from his desk. "Brass scales! And phials! Colin, what're phials?"

"They're like Muggle test tubes, but much better! You use them to measure ingredients in Potions!"

"Wow…" sighed Dennis. He lay back on his bed with a huge smile on his face. He didn't lie still for long, though. A second later he bounced up again. "And all those books, Colin! They're brilliant!"

"Yeah, they are, Dennis! Like _Magical Drafts and Potions_! It tells you about all these amazing potions you can make!"

"And then there's the one about the animals, that gives them all ratings, right?"

"That's _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_!"

"And the thousand herbs and fungi, and trans—, transfig—"

"Transfiguration, Dennis! It's brilliant!"

"Yeah, that, and the book of spells!" Dennis took a deep breath. He was so excited that he looked like he'd been exercising all morning, not sitting in bed talking about schoolbooks. "I'm going to get some water, Colin, d'you want some?"

"Yeah, that'd be great, Dennis, thanks!"

As Dennis scampered down the hall, Colin beamed around their tiny, cluttered bedroom. A stack of his own textbooks was perched precariously on the edge of his small desk. Carefully positioned on the other side of the desk were a camera and a long thin box. In the middle, another textbook lay open with a quill and a longish piece of parchment on top of it. Colin had been working there the night before on an essay about shrinking potions, assigned by his most alarming teacher, Professor Snape. But even the thought of Professor Snape couldn't dampen Colin's spirits at the moment. In just two days he would be back in the magical world—just for a visit, true, but in two weeks he would be back for a whole term, back where he belonged.

It was strange how much he felt like he belonged at Hogwarts and in the magical world, considering that, for most of his life, he hadn't even known they existed. He had never understood why odd things had always happened around him—like when one of Mrs. Twitmyer's flower boxes really had exploded right behind him, when she'd been shouting at him after her dog's fur had turned purple. It had probably been Dennis who'd turned the dog's fur purple, but Mrs. Twitmyer had never been able to tell him and Dennis apart anyway.

Another time, Tank Phipps, one of the school's biggest bullies, had backed Colin and Dennis into a fence, his cronies chuckling behind him. He'd been drinking a fizzy drink, gesturing with it as he described what he was going to do to the two Creeveys. Just as he had pulled his fist back, the drink had erupted straight into his face. Colin and Dennis had run for it while Tank was gasping and choking, his cronies frozen in confusion, apparently unsure how to defend Tank from his own drink.

But exploding flower boxes and spewing drinks had been nothing to what had happened the time Colin's maths teacher had been shouting at him in front of the whole class. First, the piece of chalk in Mr. Haight's hand had exploded, coating him in a layer of chalk dust. Then, while he was coughing and staggering angrily towards Colin, Mr. Haight's stapler had gone mad, snapping and stapling in wild circles around the desk. Then it had pounced on Mr. Haight himself, nearly stapling his hands to the desk before chasing him out of the room.

Neither Colin nor Dennis had ever been able to explain any of these events, and they generally hadn't even enjoyed them. True, Tank's drink had been quite amusing, and Mr. Haight's stapler had stopped a most unpleasant telling-off. But some things had been outright scary, like when the boys' bedroom window had shattered right above their heads (quickly ending one of their rare fights), and most had gotten them in trouble, like when Mrs. Twitmyer's hedge had caught fire.

Then, two years ago, a knock on the door during breakfast had announced a very unusual visitor. She had been wearing a vaguely old-fashioned skirt and blouse over a pair of heavy hiking boots had been carrying an envelope—a very strange envelope it had seemed at the time, odd-coloured, thick, and addressed in green ink. She had winked cheerfully at Colin and Dennis, who were staring open-mouthed at her from the breakfast table. Then she had ushered Dad into the family room and spoken softly and earnestly to him for a longish while. When they came back into the kitchen, Dad was looking rather stunned, but the woman looked just as cheery as ever.

"Er, Colin," Dad had said, "This is Mrs. Branstone. She's from, uh—"

"Agatha Branstone, Colin," the woman had interrupted merrily, extending a hand to shake Colin's. "I'm from the Muggle Liaison Office. You don't know what that means yet, but no matter. I'm here to talk to you about your schooling."

"My what?" Colin had said, blinking at her.

"You have special abilities, Colin," she had continued, beaming at him. "There's a spot for you at a school in Scotland just for children with abilities like yours."

"Huh?" Colin had answered. "I don't have any special abilities. Ma'am."

"Of course you do!" Mrs. Branstone had responded jovially. "Haven't you noticed funny things happening around you when you've been scared or angry?"

As Mrs. Twitmyer's dog's fur had only just gone back to its normal colour, Colin certainly hadn't been able to deny this.

"You mean—" he had paused, dumbfounded. "You mean, I really do make all that stuff happen?"

"Well, maybe not always just you," she had answered, winking at Dennis (causing him a good bit of confusion). "But that's what happens sometimes when young wizards get upset."

"Young—sorry, what?" Colin had stammered.

A good deal of explanation had ensued, eventually ending with Colin opening the odd-looking envelope with trembling fingers, blinking for a while at the funny-looking paper inside, writing shakily, "Yes, I would love to come, thanks very much," signing his name, and watching as Mrs. Branstone tied the paper to the leg of an owl inexplicably perched outside the kitchen window.

Now, a mere two weeks before the start of his third year at Hogwarts, Colin was more excited than ever about going back to school. Showing Dennis everything about Hogwarts would possibly be even more exciting than it had been finding it out himself. Dennis's own Hogwarts letter had arrived by owl nearly four weeks ago, much to the eleven-year-old's relief. Dennis had been quite nervous that he wouldn't be invited to Hogwarts, even though Colin had told him over and over that he was being silly ("Of course you're a wizard, Den! How else d'you think the Twit's hosepipe went mad that time?"). After the letter had arrived, Dennis had carefully put it up on the wall over his desk. Colin had seen him re-reading it at least once every day since then. As he heard Dennis coming back down the hall with the water glasses, Colin grinned across the room at his brother's letter. _Yes,_ he thought, _this is going to be an excellent year._


	3. The Owl

Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter, Colin and Dennis Creevey, and the rest of the characters, settings, etc. from the Harry Potter series. I didn't invent and don't own any of them. She also owns the plot from _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire,_ which this story will be rigorously based on.

Thanks for the reviews, cecelle and Shading in Grey! Cecelle, if you can point me to that interview where JKR mentioned Ministry reps coming to explain things to Muggleborns' parents, I would be very grateful. I've tried to find it on Quick Quotes Quill, but haven't had any luck.

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**Ch. 3: The Owl**

About half an hour later, Colin was sitting at his desk staring at his copy of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_. He still had about six inches to go on his shrinking potions essay and was decidedly stuck over a bit about daisy roots.

"Daisy roots! Wow!" Dennis exclaimed when Colin told him about this. "What d'you do with them?"

"Well, you chop them up really fine and really even, it says in the potions book," Colin explained. "But I have to work out why that's important…"

"What else has it got in it?"

Colin consulted his parchment.

"Abyssinian skinned shrivelfig—that makes sense, because you want things to get smaller. The other stuff must make it shrink properly, and not shrivel right up!" This helped, but it didn't resolve his confusion about why the daisy roots had to be chopped so evenly. "Sliced caterpillar…rat spleen…" He scanned his essay for any more clues about the daisy roots. "Oh yeah, and the leech juice!"

Dennis was strangely quiet. Colin turned and looked at his brother in the steadily growing light from the window. The eleven-year-old was fast asleep.

For a few hours, the boys' room was quiet except for Colin's quill's scratching, his whispers about potion ingredients, and Dennis's occasional light snore. Finally, Colin finished his last sentence and nodded in satisfaction. He still wasn't sure he understood the bit about the daisy roots, but at least the essay was long enough now. He went to Dennis's bed and shook him by the shoulder.

"Hey, Dennis! It's time to make breakfast!"

Dennis blinked at him for a moment, then grinned and bounced upright.

"Breakfast! I'm starving, Colin!"

In the kitchen, the boys soon had bacon frying and porridge simmering.

"What else is there, Colin?" asked Dennis, who was minding the bacon.

"Well…" said Colin, peering into the kitchen cupboard, "There's some kippers still."

"Eurgh! I _hate_ kippers!" groaned Dennis. "Isn't there anything else?"

"Don't worry, Dennis! We'll fry some eggs too, when the bacon's done."

The bacon was on the table, the last of the eggs nearly finished, and the porridge almost creamy enough when the boys heard their father's whistling. Looking outside, they saw him walking up the pavement, carrying a jug of milk in one hand and paper bag in the other.

"Breakfast!" he exclaimed as he came in the door. "It looks excellent, boys!" Colin quickly scooped the last egg out of the pan as Dennis eagerly relieved their father of his paper bag, which proved to contain—

"Grapefruits!" Dennis exclaimed happily.

"Brilliant, Dad!" cried Colin.

"Tell me about breakfast at Hogwarts again, Colin!" begged Dennis as the three Creeveys sat down at the kitchen table. He asked this at least once a week, but Colin didn't mind, as he never tired of talking about anything having to do with Hogwarts.

"It's amazing, Dennis! Halfway through it, all the owls fly in with everybody's mail!"

"And they land on the tables?" asked Dennis eagerly.

"Yeah, right on the tables, and they like it if you give them some of your food!"

"That's neat! What kind of food do they like best?"

"It seems like they like _everything_! Bacon, toast, orange juice…"

"What else is there for breakfast?" Dennis interrupted.

"Loads of stuff, Dennis! Porridge, and rolls, and fruit, and kippers—"

"Eurgh!" said Dennis, who was mashing his grapefruit into his porridge.

"It's ok, you don't have to eat the kippers, there's plenty of other stuff. And if you get there early enough in the morning, you get to see the food appear on the tables by magic!"

"Wow! Where does it come from?"

This was a good question. Colin paused for a bit.

"I've no idea, Dennis! I've heard something about kitchens, somewhere…"

"Brilliant! We can go find them when we get there!"

"Yeah! That'll be excellent, Dennis!" Now why had he, Colin, never thought to go look for the kitchens? Oh well, that would be the good thing about having Dennis around—plenty of new ideas.

"Now, boys," said Dad, leaning forward and looking very earnest, "you want to be careful about—" But he was interrupted by a loud tapping noise.

"A letter!" squeaked Dennis, jumping up and hurrying to the window. Colin, close on his brother's heels, recognized Falco, the smallish screech owl that belonged to Tommy Blasengame, his fellow Gryffindor third-year.

"What's it say, Colin?" demanded Dennis, trying to pet Falco. Colin quickly unfolded the letter.

_Hi Colin!_

_You'll never believe this—I'm at the Quidditch World Cup! My mum gave the tickets to my dad for his birthday. We had to pack up and leave right away, and we still didn't get here until late. Then, we had to set up a tent! A Muggle tent! It took forever. Anyway, it's really exciting here, even at night. Wish you could've come too! The match starts Monday night. I'll owl you when it's over and tell you all about it! Hope your summer's still going well!_

_Oh yeah, the match is Ireland vs. Bulgaria—none of the other English sides were any good this year—_

_Best,_

_Tommy _

"Wow," breathed Colin. "The Quidditch World Cup!"

"Quidditch has a World Cup?" asked Dennis, momentarily distracted from seeing if Falco liked grapefruit.

"Just like football?" chimed in Dad.

"I guess so," said Colin, skimming the letter again. "I wonder why they had to set up a Muggle tent?" He quickly found parchment and a quill and wrote Tommy back, congratulating his friend on his terrific luck. He also let him know he'd be staying at The Leaky Cauldron on Monday, in case the match ended in time for Tommy to owl him that night. But he added that he hoped the match would last longer than that.

Colin tied his letter to Falco's leg with some difficulty, as the owl was now standing on Dennis's head, letting Dad feed him bacon.

"All right, Falco," he said, extricating the owl's talons from Dennis's hair, "see you in a few days, I bet! Have a safe flight!" He watched as Falco flew swiftly away and felt a pang of something like homesickness, thinking of the world where the owl was headed. But he took a deep breath and reminded himself: _Diagon Alley in two days. Hogwarts in two weeks._ And the pang quickly turned to a thrill of excitement.


	4. Back to Waiting

Thanks as usual for the reviews of the last chapter! I'll be revising Ch. 2 soon, changing the part about how Colin finds out about Hogwarts. Thanks again for that interview reference, Cecelle! Tania: I'm also excited about getting to the parts with Harry! The chapters are running parallel to the chapters in GoF, so there are a few more before we actually get to Hogwarts. But we'll be hearing about the QWC and its aftermath in the next few chapters.

I'm hoping for some advice about Ch. 1. I had my mom read it, and she told me it was a bit confusing. Actually, she said it was like a Star Trek episode that starts on the holodeck—I come from a family of nerds. So, does anyone have any suggestions for how to make it clearer? Like, making it more obvious that it's a dream... or something.

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**Chapter 4: Back to Waiting**

By noon the next day, Colin had checked through his knapsack for the fifth time, making sure he'd packed everything for the trip to Diagon Alley. He had. This was a bit of a problem, as they weren't leaving until the following morning. It was really rather amazing how slowly time could pass. Colin caught himself looking at the clock about once every thirty seconds. He was much too restless to work on his homework, even though normally he enjoyed anything, even essays, that reminded him of the wizarding world. But somehow, the uselessness of fourteenth-century witch-burning couldn't quite hold his interest at the moment. Besides, he wouldn't have been able to concentrate for long anyway, since Dennis had finished packing also and was jumping around the room, on and off the furniture.

Colin paced down the hall, through the kitchen and the family room, and back to the bedroom. For about the twentieth time. Dennis now appeared to be literally bouncing off the walls. Colin sighed and headed back into the family room. Dad, reading the newspaper on the couch, looked up at him with a sympathetic grin.

"Bit restless, Col?" he asked.

At that point, a noise came from the bedroom that sounded distinctly like shattering glass.

"Oh, bugger..." Dennis's voice floated down the hall.

Dad sighed and rubbed his temples.

"Alright," he said firmly, standing up, "enough." He took Colin and a now very anxious-looking Dennis by the hand, led them out the back door, and kicked the football to them.

"It's not as good as Quidditch, I know, but you two are about to go mad." And with another sympathetic smile, he went back inside.

Colin and Dennis looked at the football and looked at each other. It had been very hot the past few days, so they hadn't played football in a while. And it wasn't quite like Quidditch, but still...

Both of them ran for the ball at once.

A few minutes later, neither brother had scored yet. Colin had to keep reminding himself to concentrate on getting the ball past Dennis, not on how different football was from flying. Some of his friends from wizarding families were probably practicing Quidditch this very moment. And then there was Tommy, who'd be watching the Quidditch World Cup tomorrow night. Too bad Tommy's mum couldn't have gotten an extra ticket—

"Ha! I scored on you, Colin!" Dennis had kicked the ball right between Colin's feet and gotten past him. Well, that certainly wouldn't do. He couldn't let his little brother beat him at football just because he was distracted thinking about Quidditch.

"All right, you're asking for it now!" Colin shouted as he began taking the ball back across the yard. Dennis tried to steal, but Colin kept the ball as Dennis nearly tripped. But he recovered quickly as Colin kicked the ball just a bit too hard—it was right in front of him but Dennis was racing for it too—both boys' feet connected at the same time—

"Whoops..."

"Oh, bugger..."

The ball shot up at an angle—not a good angle. Both brothers ran to intercept it, but it was already out of reach. It arced gracefully over Mrs. Twitmyer's perfect hedge and landed in—

"The new flower bed!" whispered Dennis as the boys peered through the hedge. "But I don't think it hurt anything—"

"Yes it did, look, it smashed that funny red plant," Colin whispered back.

"Ooh..." breathed Dennis. "What're we going to do, Colin?"

"We've got to get the ball back! Then maybe the Twit won't know it was us!"

"D'you see her? Is she home?"

"I don't know, Dennis, but we'd better hurry!" Colin bit his lower lip, staring at the football in the flower bed. "Ok, one of us needs to go through the hedge and grab the ball."

"I'll go, Colin! I'm smaller and I can fit through the hedge better," Dennis said, clenching his fists and bracing himself. A moment later, he was worming his way through the least impassable part of Mrs. Twitmyer's greenery.

Colin peered through the leaves and held his breath as Dennis pulled himself out of the hedge on Mrs. Twitmyer's side and began creeping towards the flower bed. It looked like he was going to reach the football without any trouble—except—

"Oh no!" Colin whispered. "Dennis! Look out! It's Muffin!" But it was too late. The massive dog bowled Dennis over on top of a clump of primroses. Colin frantically worked through the hedge. Muffin was growling and snapping at Dennis's face now.

"Bad dog!" shouted Colin, throwing a stick at Muffin's hindquarters. It missed, but Muffin didn't seem to notice this. He leaped at Colin, uprooting a young azalea plant. Now Colin was on his back with Muffin growling and drooling over him. He tried to keep the dog's teeth away from his face, but this was difficult without getting his fingers caught in the massive jaws.

"Get away! Get away, stupid dog!" he could hear Dennis shouting. The younger boy had jumped up and was running towards Colin and Muffin, heedlessly crushing pansies underfoot.

"Creevey!" It was the all-too-familiar screech of Mrs. Twitmyer. The only good effect it had was that Muffin promptly stopped trying to take Colin's head off and bounded eagerly to his mistress. "Yes, yes, such a good dog," she crooned. "Were the nasty boys frightening you?" She fixed her beady gaze on Colin and Dennis, who were scooting backwards as fast as possible toward the hedge.

"Don't you try to get away, you dirty little brats! You've frightened Muffin, torn up my new flowers—"

"We're sorry—"

"Didn't mean to—"

"We'll fix it—"

"Too right you'll fix it!" she shrieked. "You'll do more than that if I have my way!" She was advancing on them, backing them against the hedge, shaking her finger in their faces. "Terrorizing the neighborhood—property damage—reform school in my opinion—not some posh private school—how your father affords it I don't know—selling drugs on his milk rounds—"

At that point, the hedge exploded.


	5. Twitmyer's Towering Temper

A/N: Finally, a new chapter! Thanks to anyone who's still bothering to check on this story. :-) Sorry for the long delay—I had to be a grad student for a while.

A note on language: At one point in this chapter, I refer to "pudding" and then have the boys eat ice cream. This is because, as best as I can tell, in England "pudding" means, among other things, any kind of dessert. Over here in the States, "pudding" refers specifically to a sweet, somewhat gelatinous food that has a consistency similar to yogurt and custard. It comes in lots of flavors and is enjoyed by almost everyone, including Bill Cosby.

Also, a "garden" in England is apparently what we call a "yard" in the States.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Twitmyer's Towering Temper**

Several hours later, Colin spread the final spadeful of mulch on the flowerbed. He sat down heavily on the grass with a groan.

"Are we done yet, Colin?" mumbled Dennis into the grass, where he'd collapsed face down about thirty seconds earlier.

"With the mulch, Dennis," sighed Colin.

"And we already planted the flowers."

"Yes." Colin was fairly certain that Mrs. Twitmyer had made them plant more flowers than had been there in the first place. After making them turn over all the soil by hand.

"And we weeded all the other flowerbeds," continued Dennis.

"And planted the new bushes in the hedge."

"Stupid hedge."

What had felt like the entire hedge exploding had in fact been the two bushes immediately behind the two boys forcibly uprooting themselves. Colin and Dennis had been quite relieved to discover this—but for some reason Mrs. Twitmyer hadn't been.

"And we trimmed the hedge too," Colin added.

"Bloody stupid hedge."

Silence fell for a moment. Colin sighed.

"We've still gotta—"

"CREEVEY!"

"—mow the lawn—"

"WHAT are you doing lounging around! You're not finished yet!"

The boys scrambled to their feet.

"We were just about to mow the lawn, Mrs. Twitmyer!" Colin called quickly.

But she was already striding towards them.

"You! Casper!" she shrieked at Dennis. "Get the mower! And you! Dunlap!" She stuck her finger in Colin's face. "Are all the twigs picked up?"

"Yes, Mrs. Twitmyer!" he exclaimed vehemently. "We raked the whole garden—"

"Liar!" she shouted. "I see a twig right there!"

Colin looked. He couldn't see anything remotely resembling a twig. If there had been a twig, he was sure it would have shriveled up in fright when Mrs. Twitmyer pointed at it. In fact, he had never seen twigs in Mrs. Twitmyer's garden, except right after they had trimmed the hedge. If he had been a twig, he certainly wouldn't have wanted to wander onto Mrs. Twitmyer's lawn.

"You'll go over the lawn again, Carter!" she barked. "Before that Dallas comes through with the mower! I'm not having my mower ruined because of your carelessness!"

She stomped back inside, muttering in a very carrying voice ("_No_ initiative—have to be told every little step—comes of being spoiled—bad end one of these days—") until the door slammed shut behind her.

The boys raked and mowed for over an hour, switching places whenever they were sure their neighbour couldn't see them. They knew from long experience which parts of the garden couldn't be seen from the windows. They also knew that Mrs. Twitmyer had no idea which of them was which and thus would never notice they had switched places if she didn't see them do it. The sun was nearly setting when they knocked on Mrs. Twitmyer's door to tell her they were finished.

"You're not finished until I've inspected your work!" she snapped. "Calvin! That mulch is uneven! Smooth it flat! Darwin, there are grass clippings on the pavement! Sweep it! And don't think you can leave without cleaning all the tools you got dirty! And you still need to..."

It was well after dark by the time the boys trudged back to their own house, covered in dirt, sweat, blisters, and sunburn. They sat numbly at the table, drinking tall glasses of lemonade that Dad had poured for them. This revived them enough to go take baths.

Three quarters of an hour later, with bandaged blisters, soothed sunburns, and clean bodies, Colin and Dennis sat down once again at the kitchen table. They started in gratefully on the cold supper Dad had made for them—they couldn't have eaten anything hot at that point. For several minutes, the world consisted entirely of cold lemonade, cold turkey and ham, sliced cheese, and hard-boiled eggs.

"All right, boys," said Dad when they had slowed down a bit, "tell me what happened." Mrs. Twitmyer had hauled them by their ears to their own house and shouted at Dad for a while, but as it had been mostly incoherent ranting about vandalism, criminal tendencies, and children being allowed to play with explosives, he hadn't gotten much of the details except for the part about the bushes being uprooted.

Colin looked at Dennis. Dennis looked at Colin. Both boys looked at Dad and started explaining at the same time.

"We were playing football—"

"The ball went over the hedge—"

"Muffin attacked Dennis!"

"We were just trying to get away—"

"Boys!" said Dad, holding up his hands to stop them. "Calm down, and tell me what made Mrs. Twitmyer so angry."

"We didn't do anything!" they both burst out indignantly.

"It was Muffin who tore up the flowerbed!"

"She said you were selling drugs!"

Dad choked, but in amusement rather than indignation.

"What, on my milk rounds?" he asked through his laughter.

"Yes!" Colin and Dennis shouted furiously.

"OK, boys," Dad said, a corner of his mouth still twitching, "two deep breaths. Eat some more ham. You're not in trouble, and you don't have to defend yourselves. Or me. And I know you didn't make Mrs. Twitmyer angry on purpose."

He waited for several minutes before trying again. This time, Colin was able to talk fairly calmly about how the football had gone over the hedge and landed in the flowerbed. Dennis explained, a mite less calmly, about Muffin's mauling of the flowers (and attempted mauling of the boys). And both boys chimed in, decidedly less calmly, when describing Mrs. Twitmyer cornering them against the hedge, shrieking insults about them and about Dad—

"And, I dunno," Colin paused. He suddenly felt a bit foolish. "Well, it, er, made me really angry..." His voice trailed off. Why had he let the Twit make him so frightened and angry? It wasn't as if he cared what she thought anyway.

"Me too," sighed Dennis.

"We didn't _mean_ for anything to happen to the hedge..." Not exactly, anyway.

"Alright, boys," said Dad bracingly. "I don't want you to have to spend your afternoons repairing Mrs. Twitmyer's garden. But I can't do all that much about it when you _did_ sneak into her garden and you _did_ blow up her hedge. Never mind that she hasn't any idea _how_ you blew it up. So I'm going to ask you to promise me that you will not go onto Mrs. Twitmyer's property again this summer, no matter what." He surveyed them very seriously. The boys stared at the table.

"We promise, Dad," they said sheepishly.

"If a football or anything else somehow makes its way into her garden, you will _come get me_ rather than trying to sneak in to get it."

"Yes, Dad."

"OK, Dad."

He looked at them solemnly for a few seconds, then grinned.

"All right, then!" he said, clapping his hands. "Time for pudding! And you can tell me all about the shops we need to go to tomorrow in Diagon Alley."

Over large dishes of ice cream, the boys told Dad, for perhaps only the tenth time that week, about their plan of attack for Diagon Alley.

"First, we go to Gringotts to change our money!" Dennis said. "And we get to see the goblins there!"

"Then, we've got to buy Dennis's wand first thing!" Colin exclaimed. "At Mr. Ollivander's!"

"Yeah," breathed Dennis, his eyes huge. He had regarded Mr. Ollivander with a great deal of awe ever since their first trip to Diagon Alley. When they had gone to the ancient shop for Colin's wand, the silver-eyed proprietor had not only known their names already but had also charmed his ladder to roll away whenever Dennis approached it—which had proved to be a wise precaution.

"And then we can go get your robes, Dennis," said Dad.

"And a pointy hat!" Dennis added promptly.

"And then Potions ingredients at the Apothecary's!" Colin continued.

"And spellbooks! At Blott's—Furnish and Botts—"

"Flourish and Blotts, Dennis!" said Colin excitedly.

"And the scales, and the phials..."

"And the telescope..."

A quarter of an hour later, Colin and Dennis lay in their beds, Dennis still listing items to buy the next day. The last thing Colin heard as he drifted off to sleep was his brother's voice.

"...robes, and a cloak, and a pointy hat..."


	6. The Railway

Disclaimer (applies to all chapters): JK Rowling owns Harry Potter, Colin and Dennis Creevey, The Leaky Cauldron, and the rest of the characters, settings, etc. from the Harry Potter series. I didn't invent and don't own any of them. She also owns the plot from _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire,_ which this story will be rigorously based on. She doesn't own the British National Rail or the route I looked up online that gets the Creeveys to London, so any mistakes in that are my fault, not hers.

A/N: I've placed Colin and Dennis's village somewhere vaguely between Stafford and Birmingham (Birmingham, UK, of course). I've never been to England, a deficiency I'll really try to remedy someday, so I hope there's some "countryside" in that area that resembles what I've described here.

* * *

**Chapter 6: The Railway**

Colin's alarm clock rang at five the next morning. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, his eyes wide as he savoured a single thought: _Diagon Alley today._ The excitement in his chest quickly grew too much for him. He sat up—

"Ow!" he yelped, falling back onto his pillow. Every muscle in his body was screaming in protest, and his skin seemed to be cracking whenever he moved.

"Y'alright, Colin?" asked Dennis sleepily, sitting up—"Yow!" he cried, flopping back down. "Argh! Stupid crazy Twit..."

"All right, boys?" came Dad's voice from the doorway. They looked at him mutely. He gave a rueful smile. "Yes, I was afraid you might be a mite stiff."

"Er, yeah, a mite..." mumbled Colin, sitting up again—much more carefully this time.

"Yeah, bit stiff," agreed Dennis, gingerly feeling his face, which ranged in colour from salmon to tomato.

"Hmm," said Dad, scratching his head. "Well, we'll see how you feel after baths again."

Sure enough, Colin and Dennis's muscles were much less stiff after baths. Their sunburns and blisters were still stinging as they toweled themselves off, but their excitement about Diagon Alley was rapidly overwhelming their discomfort.

"Omelets!" cried Dennis as both boys, bathed and bandaged once more, hurried into the kitchen. They wolfed down the omelets and porridge Dad had made. Their hair was scarcely dry by the time they were standing by the door with their knapsacks. Dad grinned down at them, shouldering his own knapsack.

"All right, then, boys," he said, "We're all very excited. We'll be in Diagon Alley in about four hours." He now assumed a more serious expression. "But, as you know, we have to ride the train with ordinary Muggles to get there. So, what does that mean?"

"We can't talk about magic!" said Dennis, bouncing on his toes and edging towards the door.

"Right," said Dad, putting a hand on Dennis's shoulder. "So, no talking about Diagon Alley, even though we're going there. No talking about the Leaky Cauldron, or about Hogwarts. No talking about wands, or Quidditch, or Muggles, or brooms."

"No talking about robes, or dragon-hide gloves, or potions!" Colin chimed in.

"No spellbooks, or phials, or pointy hats!" added Dennis.

"Exactly," said Dad. "And why are we going to London, if anyone asks?"

"We're taking a holiday before we go back to school!" Colin answered dutifully.

"And we might pick up some school supplies while we're there!" Dennis finished. They had been practising this version of the truth for a few weeks now.

"Alright then!" said Dad, finally allowing himself to grin excitedly also. "Let's go!" And they headed out the door into the growing daylight.

It took about half an hour to reach their village's tiny train station. Colin and Dennis trotted eagerly all the way, the soreness in their legs wearing off quickly. Colin breathed in the early morning air happily, thinking of mornings at Hogwarts. He also thought of his friend Tommy, waking up somewhere far away in a tent and waiting for the Quidditch World Cup that evening. _Can't talk about Quidditch_, he reminded himself, and kept looking around at the sunbeams slanting through misty tree branches, the flowers and spiderwebs covered in dew, the grasses ruffled by soft breezes. Somehow, everything he saw reminded him more and more of Hogwarts. The excitement in his chest swelled so much that he thought he just might float to London.

The train station was mostly empty, which was a good thing since Colin and Dennis's nervous pacing took up most of the available space. It was also a good thing that they only had a few minutes to wait. Even Dad was starting to look a bit jumpy by the time the train to Birmingham pulled in. The Creeveys sat close to the front of the train, a few rows away from a man in a business suit reading a newspaper.

Colin and Dennis didn't stay seated for long. Less than five minutes after rolling southward out of the station, Dennis was standing on his seat to peer out of the window, anxiously watching for the outskirts of Birmingham. Colin sat for a few minutes longer, working on a crossword puzzle that Dad gave him, but couldn't really concentrate. He got 6 Down, "one who turns lead into gold" ("alchemist"), but gave it up after staring for a long while at 5 Across, "dangerous liquid." All he could think of was "potion," which didn't have the right number of letters. He joined Dennis, who was bouncing on his toes, in staring out the window. However, as Birmingham showed no sign of appearing, Dennis soon reverted to his usual habit of jumping from seat to seat. The businessy man behind them gave an audible sigh.

"Boys," Dad said mildly, "no jumping on the seats, please."

Dennis, on the floor now, bounced across the train to stare out of the other window, although he had to stand on his toes to see.

"Come and look, Colin! Cows! I think it's the same ones we saw last year!" he shouted. Colin joined him quickly and watched as they rode past the herd of cows.

"Horses over here, boys," Dad let them know. They both rushed back to look out of their original window. The man in the suit stared at them and shuffled through his newspaper forcefully.

"Ooh, a rabbit!" said Dennis, pointing.

"Look, there's that farmhouse!"

"There's that little river!"

"I think there's a hawk over here, Dennis!" said Colin, back on the far side of the train.

"Neat!" said Dennis, running to see. "Hey Colin, what's that thing you said is part horse and part eagle?"

"It's a hypp—"

Colin froze as he realised what they had just said. He looked at Dennis, who also stood frozen, his mouth open. They looked nervously at Dad, then at the businessman, who was glaring at them.

"We're taking a holiday before we go back to school!" blurted Dennis.

The man harumphed, folded his newspaper violently, and stomped out of the compartment.

"Er—" said Colin uncertainly. "D'you think we should—"

"If I had to guess, boys," said Dad with the corners of his mouth twitching, "I'd say he'd prefer you left him alone. Here, come look, I think we're getting into the edges of Birmingham."

Sure enough, the scenery was changing from countryside to streets lined with houses. Colin and Dennis dashed to the window again and watched eagerly, spotting landmarks they recognised from previous trips. It wasn't too long before they were pulling into the New Street station, where they made sure to avoid the man in the business suit while waiting for the train that would take them to London.

The Birmingham-to-London leg of their journey was much more crowded than the previous one. This meant that Colin and Dennis had to restrict themselves to one seat each, which their excitement at this point made extremely difficult. Fortunately, this time they were seated next to a cheery sort of woman with curly gray hair, who said that they reminded her of her grandchildren. She gave them cookies and fussed over their sunburns.

"They sure do grow up quickly, don't they?" Colin heard her say to Dad as they parted ways.

"Yes, ma'am," Dad answered quietly, "they sure do."

The tube ride from Euston station to Charing Cross was very nearly more than Colin and Dennis could stand. Even though it was actually the shortest section of their journey, it felt by far the longest. They managed to stay in their seats, although Dennis never actually sat down. For some reason, their fellow passengers kept giving them irritated looks and moving away.

The brothers burst out of the door when they at long last arrived at the Charing Cross stop. They might have run all the way to Diagon Alley had Dad not put a hand on each of their shoulders just in time. In fact, Dad was quivering with excitement himself, but the three of them resigned themselves to walking at a pace where they at least would avoid running into other pedestrians. Nonetheless, Colin and Dennis couldn't keep themselves from breaking into a run as they approached The Leaky Cauldron.

They led Dad into the pub—being a Muggle, he couldn't see it until he was inside—where the usual warm, cheery hubbub surrounded them. It didn't take very long to find Tom the landlord, who looked just as ancient as ever.

"Well, if it isn't the Creevey boys," he said, beaming toothlessly at them. "And Mr. Creevey," he added, shaking Dad's hand. "I've reserved room eight for you gentlemen, if you'll follow me up."

The boys and Dad put their knapsacks down in their room but lingered only long enough for Colin to carefully take out his camera and wand. A few moments later, the three Creeveys stood in the pub's backyard, staring at a brick wall and a trash bin. Dennis was hopping frantically from foot to foot, and Dad was rubbing the back of his head impatiently.

Colin took a deep breath, pulled out his wand, and tapped the third brick from the left.

* * *

A/Ns:

**Duj:** Thanks for all your reviews! Yes, I love the Creeveys' enthusiasm about the magical world also, and yes, that's part of the reason I decided to write about them—it's what I would be like if I were there. And yes, dealing w/ the Twit is character building for dealing with Snape. Re: your review of my Susan fic, you're very perceptive! Susan in that fic did indeed keep channeling Jane while I was writing it. I've read nearly everything of C.S. Lewis's. :-)

**Cecelle:** Yeah, I like the dad too. I'm trying hard not to make him _too_ nice. Anyway, we get the idea he's pretty interested in Colin's school life way back in Book 2, so I'm working with that. You'll get some more insight into him in the next few chapters.

**Shading in Grey:** Good luck w/ everything; hope you get the time to write something sometime.

**Namith:** You're right about the Twit—she started channeling Aunt Marge when I wasn't looking. She's also got characteristics of Aunt Petunia (w/ the unreasonable chores) and, oddly enough, Prof Binns with the name difficulties.


End file.
